


The Empathetic Game

by Goonipers



Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Gen, Mind Games, Parody/Satire, sardonicism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2019-07-16 11:02:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16084793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Goonipers/pseuds/Goonipers
Summary: After Moist von Lipwig invents a people game drunk, he shares it with Vimes, and they practise on heads of state.





	The Empathetic Game

  
Moist was drunk, somewhat tiddly. Everyone was. It had been beer, followed by sherry, and everyone was excusing themselves, drunk. It was quite late in the evening, and they'd all piled back to Lady Selachii's for afters, and a game of cards.  
  
Moist was on his second glass of sherry when he invented it.  
  
He was accosted by Vimes. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he asked, red in the face despite all the orange juice.  
  
"I've invented a new tactic," he slurred, deciding to share. "I empathise with someone on something they do, and I lie about it. It's a con."  
  
Vimes smiled. "Try it out on someone, and I'll join in with the game. It's called a game, not a con in politics."  
  
Moist approached Mrs. Palm, who was hiccuping. "Hello, I just wanted to say--"  
  
"--that I," said Vimes, to his horror, "used to be a rent boy. It was down in the Shades when I was down on my luck."  
  
Moist dragged him aside. "That's not how you play it," he shushed him. "Watch me."  
  
He approached Mr. Boggis. "Hello, sir, I used to be a smuggler down on the Plains before I learnt my trade."  
  
"Really?" he gasped. "I used to be a smuggler and cutpurse too! What a coincidence!" He drank from his glass. "How much did you used to make?"  
  
"About ten thousand to twelve," hazarded Moist, using what he used to earn in bank cons. "What did--?"  
  
Vimes pulled him away. "It's not working. You're too drunk. Let's play a better game." He approached Vetinari, who was listening to all the witty things people said when drunk.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"Yes?" Vetinari turned, sipping water.  
  
Vimes began, "Sir, I have something to tell you. It started down in the AA meeting, discussing health. Apparently, all this fried food I eat is unhealthy, so I've decided to slim down, and become anorexic like you, sir!" He stepped back to judge the reaction.  
  
"Hm?"  
  
Moist began, "I've always considered a job in politics, even when I was young. I heard about you, and -- he's not drunk enough, is he, Vimes?"  
  
"I'm sober," said Vetinari. "What are you doing?"  
  
"He's devised this terrible game without knowing about games, sir. He thinks they're like drunken cons."  
  
Mrs. Palm turned away, and started talking to Mr. Boggis. They laughed. They wouldn't remember in the morning.  
  
Vetinari's lips twitched along his wine glass. He was trying not to smile. He put his glass down again. "So you like games, do you, Moist von Lipwig? I'll have to show you one. Come."  
  
He led them down a side passage, and some steps, and set up the rules of the game. "And no laughing," he promised them. They approached the heads of state.  
  
Vetinari adopted a good listening face, and tilted his head on one side. He tapped someone on the shoulder. "Ah, good one. Tell me more." Some drunken upper class twit rambled on about his latest sporting trophy: fox hunting. He'd strung up the vixen tail over his shoulder, and was showing it off proudly amongst a fox fur over his shoulders and up to his moustache.  
  
Moist watched Vetinari deftly flip the vixen tail. It swung. "How cruel," he commented nicely.  
  
"I'd say! Jolly good show!" The drunken twit turned back.  
  
Vetinari turned to Moist. "Go on, your turn."  
  
Moist put down his sherry glass unsteadily, and approached the Chief of Istanzia. "I say, sir," he said, adopting a good imitation of a listening face. "That's a good story, but I didn't hear it all. What did you say, again?" He looked like a little lost puppy. Over in the corner, Vimes put his hand over his face.  
  
The Chief of Istanzia drained his glass, and had it refilled. He had a new listening partner! He told him, in a brief accent, of the costs of losing the war to Omnia. They were still in debt, somewhat, but not as bad as third world. Djelibeybi was really in debt.  
  
"It's the pyramids sucking up all the gold," he was told. "They've tried to restore and knock them down, but it's a losing battle." He turned back to his Klatchian friend.  
  
Moist staggered over. Boy, was that boring! How did Vimes and Vetinari stand it?  
  
Vimes laughed, breaking the rules of the game. "Your face!" he whispered. "Well, how do you like it?"  
  
"Better than being interrogated," he confessed. He looked around. Let me see...  
  
He approached a priest. Vetinari held him by the shoulders, and pressed him on. It was Hughnon Ridcully.  
  
"I don't think I'm ready for this yet, sir!" he whispered. "I'm drunk too."  
  
"So's he." Vetinari smirked. "He's nice."  
  
Moist adopted a listening look. "Hello, sir. How are all the gods tonight, and your good self?"  
  
Hughnon laughed, jolly-like. "The old bastards are fine. All thunder and lightning monopolised."  
  
Moist was stuck. Vetinari whispered in his ear.  
  
"How's Blind Io?"  
  
"Oh, terrible. He's in bed with an STD that's rendered him blind and sterile. But he'll be all right by morning. Immortals, you know."  
  
"Have you ever had an STD?" He didn't know how, but it just slipped out.  
  
"Oh, of course not, laddie. How can you be so stupid? He use sonkies in the city until we find a pure bitch who won't give us the clap."  
  
Behind him, Vetinari gave him a slow clap. Moist left. "I was terrible," he said.  
  
Vimes said, "I wasn't lip reading at this angle. What did he say?"  
  
Vetinari stooped a little, and whispered in Vimes' ear.  
  
"What?" Vimes shook him off, and approached Mustrum Ridcully, who was jolly and playing cards with Lady Selachii. They were playing Cripple Mr Onion. "Can I join in?"  
  
"No," said Mustrum Ridcully. "I've got a full spread."  
  
Lady Selachii gasped, and folded. The pot remained untouched.  
  
Vimes sat down by him anyway, and shuffled. "How's magic?"  
  
"Oh, fine, fine. No, don't touch that, that's my winning hand, Sam."  
  
"How much did you bet?"  
  
"About two hundred... no, thousand. Ye gods! I'm losing my touch. The Bursar will have me by the balls for sure!" He double-checked his money, banknotes flying in the air. "I'm down by about four grand."  
  
Lady Selachii tittered. "Do you play, Sir Samuel?"  
  
"Only if I'm not being cheated. And for buttons." He dealt them a new hand each, and restacked the cards.  
  
"Play."  
  
They took turns picking cards up, and discarding. Vimes saw that Mustrum had a new winning pair.  
  
Vetinari tapped him on the shoulder. "You're letting it show," he said. "You need a poker face."  
  
He swooped down, and sat opposite Mustrum, and declined. "Don't deal me in please. Like this, Vimes." He made a blank look.  
  
Moist hovered. He watched Vimes' face tic. He kept looking at Mustrum's hand.  
  
"Sir Sam, you're putting me off. Go away and bother someone else, good man."  
  
Moist felt rather than saw Vetinari swipe his legs out, and kick Vimes under the table. "You're not paying any attention to us, is he, Mr. Lipwig?" Vimes scowled.  
  
Then he blanked his face. Not a trace of emotion showed.  
  
Someone came round, topping up and refilling drinks. No one came round with fresh orange juice or a glass of water.  
  
Moist took the remainder of Vetinari's water, and tipped it into his sherry. That should see him to morning.  
  
Vetinari glanced up. "You're drunker than I previously thought," he said, twisting his wrist. He put his empty wine glass down, and steepled his fingers. "Perhaps the lesson here has been wasted," he sighed.  
  
Opposite, Vimes nodded impassively. He got up, leaving behind his glass. He clapped Mustrum on the shoulder as he passed.  
  
Vetinari remained seated, and used Moist like a cane to get up. He unfolded one joint at a time. The effect was spoiled somewhat by him shaking his legs.  
  
"Good gods, man. You need your cane. Where did you leave it this time?"  
  
Lady Selachii said, "Play on."  
  
Moist followed Vimes outside, where it was quiet and dark, until Vimes lit up a cigar. "That didn't work," he said. "I was fine by myself."  
  
"No, you weren't, you little tit. You're drunk. Go and bother the press. Cigar?" Moist shook his head.  
  
Vetinari had followed them out, and was picking fluff out of his beard discreetly. "That man," he began, "with the fox fur was dreadfully fascinating. He hugged me on the way out."  
  
Vimes spluttered behind the lighted cigar. "Will he live?" he asked.  
  
"The fox or vixen didn't, so perhaps, no. I don't know what he is."  
  
"Gay," said Moist, swaying with a haze of alcohol. "Even I can read that."  
  
"Everyone can," said Vimes. "It's like a ping. Mr. Harris of the Blue Cat Club sets me off every time."  
  
Vetinari hummed. He swung an arm around Moist, and acted camp. "Does this work?"  
  
"No," said Vimes. "You're putting it on. You've had girlfriends." Vetinari went blank. "Oh, gods," said Vimes, and pulled a face. "Oh, gods, sir."  
  
"At ease, Vimes. I'm jesting." He wiped a hand over his beard, removing the last of the fluff. Vimes went blank and wooden. "No, Vimes. Not that. Stop it with the relentless 'Sir'-ing. I'll meet with you tomorrow over this wretched enterprise of Captain Carrot's 'Care in the Community'," he added sarcastically. He went back for his cane.  
  
Lady Selachii met him in the doorway. She kissed red lipstick on his cheek. "Havelock, so glad you came, and brought everybody!" She sounded nothing like, but fed up and tired.  
  
Moist thanked her in a haze of sherry. Vimes puffed away on his cigar. Lady Selachii vanished, and the door slammed.  
  
They saw Vetinari climbing out of side window with his cane. He landed heavily in a flower bed with more fox fur clinging to his goatee. He spat.  
  
Moist went over to help him, but was brushed off, and bizarrely, coated in fox fur. There was more of the red hairs on his shoulder.  
  
"What happened?" he asked, slurring.  
  
"What do you think? A game. I was kissed by every last straight woman and gay man in there, I think. They've been watching me." He frisked at himself by spitting on his hanky, and rubbing at his face and neck. He stood under the porch lantern. "How much lipstick is there?"  
  
"Not much, sir."  
  
Over by the bushes, Vimes burst out laughing, low. He stubbed out his cigar, and wandered over. He tilted Vetinari under the light by the chin like a barber.  
  
"All clean and correct, sir," said Vimes. Vetinari's white hanky disappeared somewhere. He picked up his cane from its leaning place, and walked to his coach.  
  
"I'll give you a lift, Mr. Lipwig, providing you do not vomit." Vimes gave a blank stare. "I seem to recall you arrived here in someone else's carriage."  
  
"A taxi cab." He trailed after Vetinari. "Am I allowed to sing?"  
  
"If you must."  
  
Moist von Lipwig picked an Uberwaldean ballad about men and women, doing things that men didn't often to do men, and women didn't often do to women. He hoped it wouldn't translate to Vimes.  
  
More people spilled out Lady Selachii's and neighbouring mansions to the coaches parked along the main road. Drivers went to fetch the horses from the stables.  
  
He dared to sling an arm around Vetinari, and acted more drunkly than he actually was. "Is this another game, sir?" he checked.  
  
Vetinari groaned. "I don't do 'drunk adult' very well," he confessed. "But I believe they only have our silhouettes to make out." He staggered into Moist very convincingly.  
  
Moist checked his balance, and was surprised to find Vetinari join in on the chorus, albeit chanting it. They found a black coach with no Dark Clerk and no horses.  
  
"Are you sure this is it?" asked Moist.  
  
Vetinari fumbled with the key. "No. Not black enough." The key turned. "Yes, this is it." He went in and sat down. Moist joined him on the other side, and tensed up again. It was those bloody blue eyes that did it.  
  
"Well, Mr. Lipwig did you learn anything today about homosexuality, or was it all for show?"  
  
"I live with Ms. Dearheart now," he replied firmly. "Can you take me to her place?"  
  
Vetinari leant on his stick peacefully. "It's a game, Mr. Lipwig. I think I explained that earlier. It's not about lying, it's about pretending. You can act, after all. But I think you believe the lie that you tell to yourself a lot more. Am I right?"  
  
Moist gulped. This is not what he wanted to do drunk. Sing, carouse, fall down in the gutter, yes. Be interrogated, no. He pretended to fall asleep.  
  
"Ah, fuck, no," moaned Vetinari.  
  
Moist felt his cheek patted, and his body pulled into a rough sleeping position. His heart was beating fast, and he hoped he wouldn't get checked for a pulse. He forced himself to relax. He caught himself drooling.  
  
He felt Vetinari get out the coach, and the door closed, locking. He relaxed for real, and felt under the seats. Just boxes, and a horse blanket or two. Some time later, he heard footsteps return, and his heart sped up again. He shuffled into position.  
  
Vetinari got in with an assailant. He felt the coach rock as the horses were attached. They had a low, murmured conversation.  
  
Vetinari said, "He drooled on me, sir, and I can't lift him. Will you do the, ah, honours?"  
  
"Yessir." They rode on in peace.  
  
At his stop, Moist forced himself to relax as he was bodily lifted over a broad shoulder, and up and down with each footstep to Spike/Killer/Adora's home. Technically, they wanted a big place out in the suburbs where he could commute in every day to work by train. They were still looking.  
  
Someone hammered on the door. A golem maid answered it, and he was transferred to a terracotta shoulder. She put him down on the sofa.  
  
"What have you got to say for yourself?" said Spike. "You're not fooling me."  
  
Moist sat up. "I fooled him, Lord Vetinari! We were playing a game, but I'm too drunk to participate." He felt for himself gingerly. "I think I've got cramp from lying still too long, Spike."  
  
She sniffed. "You can please yourself. You stink of sherry." She sniffed again. "And root beer. You're sleeping on the sofa tonight, cherub."  
  
He blinked. "How did you know the name of that song?" It had been called, 'My Sweet Cherub' in Uberwaldean.  
  
Spike leaned forward. "A game," she purred.  
  
THE END


End file.
